The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

I pull it o the hanger and stare at it, trying to find the strength to turn around and drop it in the
box.
To just let go.
I mean, I know. On some level I know this needs to happen. I’ve known for a long time.
When the medical bills started rolling in aer that summer, past due turned into WAY past due in
the blink of an eye. My dad did everything he could to keep it at bay. Everything but give up the house.
He never said it, but I think for a long time he felt like if he let go of the house, he had to let go of
her. I think it’s why he fought so hard to keep it.
Maybe longer than he should have.
A month ago, though, it all caught up to us. I found him sitting at the kitchen table a little before
midnight, still in his dirty clothes from working his third overtime shi that week, eating reheated
pasta from another dinner he had missed out on.
“Second mortgage was denied,” he said, the ripped-open envelope still sitting in front of him, his
eyes glued to the rejection letter. “I’m going to go into town tomorrow morning to talk to a real estate
agent.”
“Summer is almost here,” I said, desperate. “I’ll be able to work more! I can take on some extra shifts,
and I can pay the electric bill, and—”
“Emily.” He cut me o, his voice firm. “It’s done. It’s over.” He pushed his chair back, the legs
screeching against the floor underneath them. “It’s time to let go.”
He got up from the table and it was like a light switch. He couldn’t part with anything, and now it
feels like there will be nothing left. Every day there’s a new pile of boxes, filled to the brim with stu to
donate. It’s like because he was forced to get rid of the house, he’s also fine with throwing out every
reminder of her.
And he wants me to be fine with it too.
But standing here, holding this tiny, pretty insignificant piece of my mom that I can’t give up, it
suddenly feels impossible. ere’s a part of me that can’t let clothes just be clothes and can’t let a house
just be a house. is disconnect between knowing what is good and right and what has to happen and
this feeling like I’m losing her all over again.
Just differently this time.
I slowly loosen my grip, my fingers letting go one by one until the cardigan falls from my hand into
the box, landing at the bottom with a soft rustle.
“How’s it going in there?”
I start, peering out of the closet to see Blake wearing the same white Ron Jon T-shirt from earlier,
another empty cardboard box tucked under her arm.
“Uh, fine!” I call back. I pull myself together and quickly scan the clothes in front of me before
grabbing a shirt with a price tag still on it and tossing it into the box at my feet so it isn’t completely
empty. “About to… get started on the shoes.”
My eyes travel over the floor-to-ceiling shoe rack as I let out a long exhale. For some reason, shoes
feel at least slightly less sentimental.
Black cardigans: definitely cry inducing, strong potential for an existential crisis.
A pair of brown loafers: instantly ready to be put into the garbage disposal, will burn if given the